“A selected ambient work, as it were,” said Pal. “Was an … ahem. Was also an OS for an …

[45 minutes passes]

… an old Taiwanese computer.”

“As it were,” said the miniature dolphin in a red solo cup.

“Tatung Einstein.”

Yarn Shop

The Night Shawn Boyle Caught a Tuna Fish

Fenty Edit

Jag Edit

The Pumas

it's a piccolo, a rubber piccolo, you take it out, you blow into it, but it vibrates too much against the rubber and makes slop flatulence and you're soon covered in spit and the piccolo is covered in spit, and you look at the pumas and they're all laughing at you, you put your
— ASAP HOBSTER (@KevinHobster) December 15, 2019

you walk toward the briefcase and without looking up you can feel the pumas collectively release the tension in their jaws, but you poop a little bit anyway and it mashes a smidgen against your cheeks and surely ruins the egg shell white fruit of the loom briefs you bought in a
— ASAP HOBSTER (@KevinHobster) December 16, 2019

that fruit of the loom didn't make good underwear, and all this is coming back to you as you pick up the briefcase, and the little bit of poop is sliding even more down your hiney, like a kid at the X games, and for a second you wonder if it actually resembles a hershey kiss and
— ASAP HOBSTER (@KevinHobster) December 16, 2019

you start to reach for it but suddenly you are bombarded by blue field entoptic phenomenon, where what appears to be tiny dots or short pieces of thread made entirely of bright light are getting squiggly right in front of you, and briefly you are startled, but then you remember
— ASAP HOBSTER (@KevinHobster) February 21, 2020

snow globe, which is actually just a light oil or a mixture of water and antifreeze, but this fact exits your mind almost as quickly as it enters, because one of the pumas starts moving toward you and as it does the minuscule glimmers (that only you can see) cease immediately
— ASAP HOBSTER (@KevinHobster) February 21, 2020

Bad Bird

No more quotation marks. Threw them down the garbage disposal. They looked like blackened scallions. Sacred scarabs, scurrying.

Superman was a bad bird. Bad.

No flap. No limbs out like a Stratofortress. Like someone would when sitting up in bed and yawning. Not out, out. Like a crucifix.

Meeting him in person would be a letdown save for a couple of things. One, the thickness and stiffness of the cape and how up close, its material appears more cabernet than fire truck, like a rich theater drape that has a regal, ascending disposition that arcs almost higher than his ears behind him, like a gargoyle’s wings.

And two, the scarce amount of light that bounces off an igneous head of hair.

VANILLA FROSTING AGENCY

clobbering imaginations.

Ba Boom

36 Chambers Edit

Beach Song for End Times

Xtal